


To Be Something

by theobliviouswriter



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: 10 years later, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, CO/WS Secret Santa 2019, Chubby Simon, F/M, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Post-Watford (Simon Snow), Professor Baz, Watford (Simon Snow), baker simon, because chubby simon is canon, boba au, canon AU, might add a part 2 from Baz's perspective eventually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:39:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21945235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theobliviouswriter/pseuds/theobliviouswriter
Summary: After ten years and several mistakes, Simon Snow decides to open a bakery. He's worried he won't get any business but after a not-so-mysterious benefactor decides to purchase the remaining goods from his store each night, he manages to find stable footing in doing something he likes.This benefactor happens to be Baz Pitch, his ex-arch nemesis and former Watford roommate. He's also the person Simon betrayed when Baz needed him most.But the two decide to meet, and after talking after such a long time, Simon realizes he wants to stay in Baz's life, and that he likes kissing more than fighting.
Relationships: Penelope Bunce & Shepard, Penelope Bunce/Shepard, Simon Snow & Agatha Wellbelove, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 8
Kudos: 113





	To Be Something

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Skskskkskskskskks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skskskkskskskskks/gifts).



> This is a little fic for Baz_Wears_ Jeans on IG for a secret santa! They wanted something snowbazzy, fluffy, and they like Shepard, so he needed to make an appearance. Anyway, I really hope they like it!!

**Simon**

Everything’s in order, and I’ve been working since three in the morning. Running a bakery is busy work, especially when you’re working on your own…and when it’s opening day. After everything that’s happened, after the wings, and the tail, and the surgery, and the regaining of my magic, and….

And, and, and. So much has happened since I was eighteen years old, where I was no longer the Chosen One and became painfully ordinary, forget the wings and tail. But a lot happens in ten years. You get married. You break up. You go up a few trouser sizes. You pick up two jobs. You get enough money to do something so much more interesting than work a heavy labour and fast food job.

You open a bakery.

Well, I suppose it’s not quite open yet.

I give my wristwatch a glance. A few moments until the bakery opens, and I’m sure I appear both frazzled and messy. To see what I look like, I turn to one of the display cases that has a mirror as its backing. Sure enough, there’s some glaze on my cheek.

Just as I go to wipe it away, the bell on the front door tinkles and I immediately turn to the entrance.

Penny, Shepard, and their little tot. A little boy named Olly. He’s the cutest thing. Shepard is holding him, waving from the door. Penny comes closer to me, a box in her hands and her amethyst pointed at my face. She casts me with a “ **Clean as a whistle** ,” and when I assess myself again, I simper at her.

“Thanks, Pen.”

“Naturally,” she says, handing me the box. “Anyway, I know we’re early. But Shep and I have work and a little boy to drop off at my parents’, so.”

To gain some idea of what’s in the box, I shift it a bit. Then, I open it. A small, marked necklace lays at the velvety bottom of the box.

“Protective talisman,” she lets me know before I can ask. She smiles at me while I put it on. “It’s also supposed to bring good luck. No need to thank me, though, Si. You know I’ll always look out for you.”

When I broke up with Agatha, Agatha kept our flat, and I got everything else. Penny took me in, took care of the divorce papers when I was too much of a mess to, helped me find jobs. Penny’s always been my best friend, but she really helped me during those times. 

Of course, she’d get me a fucking talisman.

The small family leaves before the store officially opens, but since I’m so nervous, I decide to turn on the open sign.

Now, all I can do is wait. And hope that people come. And hope that this wasn’t a bad idea, opening a bakery on my own and all….

I’ve done everything I could to promote myself, though. I bought Instagram ads, Facebook, any type of social media ad I could. I allowed a few food critics from the local newspaper try my speciality—sour cherry scones (nothing like Watford’s…nothing will ever be able to compare)—and I received excellent reviews.

My therapist tells me to stop doubting myself, but when about an hour passes, I don’t know what else I can do.

One person walked in thirty minutes after the store opened and looked around. She asked where I was from, if I made all of the baked goods myself—and she didn’t bloody buy _anything_.

As much as I don’t want to complain, it’s a pain in the ass.

 _One_ person who didn’t buy _anything_.

Another few hours slip by, and only another couple of people come in. I get one purchase of a box of scones. I’m incredibly thankful….

But will it be enough?

I know it’s only my first day, but I would think I would be doing better. The shelves and tables are packed with bread, pastries, cakes….

And I’ll have to de-shelf, donate, and remake new food tomorrow.

By half five, I begin to take all of the pastries and bread and shove them into plastic bags. I close at six so I can attempt to get a decent amount of sleep before baking more tomorrow. There’s this little charity that will take the baked goods not too far from my house; I’m glad it will be eaten, but…

Honestly, the less than spectacular grand opening burns a hole in my pocket. I have a decent amount of leprechaun gold left…but I don’t want it to be all used on this.

The bell rings while I’m shoving the last of the bread into a bag. I freeze where I am because…well…everything is in plastic bags now. Except for the cakes, but if a person is coming in to see what the store sells, they’ll be disappointed to see how barren the shelves are.

“Sorry, close to close,” I say, spinning on the spot, and the minute I look at my customer, my blood freezes.

There stands an old enemy of mine—the ever so ominous Basilton Pitch, the son of a victim of my father’s and my former roommate at Watford.

Baz is even more handsome and taller than I remember. (I was taller than him, right?) (At least I wanted to be.) But he’s broader, and I can see the contours of his muscle definition underneath the button-up he’s wearing. His cheekbones are sharper and more visible, thanks to the much shorter hair he sports now, and all I can think as he looks at me with that piercing stare is, “wow.”

To my surprise, Baz’s stare softens, and for some reason, the common defences I keep around him are nowhere to be found. I feel both vulnerable and safe, and that is not a typical combination in front of an enemy.

“Snow,” he says, and again, he sounds too soft. He doesn’t say my name like it’s a curse word anymore. After what I did to him, I’m…I’m surprised. “You own a bakery, I see.” 

“Yeah.” I rub the back of my neck, and I realise that I’ve dropped the bag. Not that it’s an issue, nothing spills out, but I still cuss under my breath and try to pick up the bag. 

Baz gets it first, and we make eye contact upon standing back up straight. “How many customers?”

This entire conversation feels so…wrong, I guess. Baz Pitch walks…no…gallivants back into my life after ten years like nothing was ever between us, or put us on opposite ends of the spectrum, or…or….

He’s talking to me like a former peer. Nothing more.

It makes me squirm with…I don’t know. And I don’t like it.

“Four,” I tell him, taking the bag back from him.

Baz juts his chin out slightly, and I don’t know why until he pulls a wallet out of his pocket. “I’ll buy the lot.”

I drop the bag again, out of shock. “What? Fuck— _what_?”

Baz shoves a thick wad of fifty-pound notes into my hands—I question why he carries so much on him.

“I’ll give them to my colleagues tomorrow. I work at a school. Just take my money and help me load them in the boot. And there should be a tip in there.”

After living with Baz for so long, it’s hard to not know if he’s serious. I used to be an expert at reading him. Apparently, I still am because he is earnest. I can tell by the way his grey eyes glimmer.

Instead of arguing, or having any further discussion, I take everything I have and help him with stuffing it in the boot. He’s paid me well beyond what everything costs, and as thankful as I am….

“Why are you doing this?”

“Please just thank me and let me leave.” Baz stuffs closed fists into his front pockets. “I’ll be back tomorrow. I’ll buy everything that wasn’t purchased.”

Baz kept his word. Day after day, he came in and bought everything I didn’t sell. As time passed, I got more customers, but there was always a hefty amount left. He bought it without saying a word, always overpaying me, then went. 

One day, though, is different. 

When I walk back into the shop, after he’s paid and left, I find a piece of paper on the cash wrap. I examine it and see a handwritten note from him. 

_I don’t know if you like boba, but please meet me._

_Her MajesTEA Boba_

_12 pm, Sunday._

_-BP_

While helping him load up one time, I mentioned how I closed on Sundays. Not many people stop by, as the store isn’t a sit-down cafe or anything. If it were, then I’d probably close on a Tuesday or something…but.

At first, I debate whether I should go. The boy in me, the Chosen One, has died. I don’t think he’d try to kill or kidnap me to atone my father’s sins (the World of Mages knows that the Mage is my father…I’ve been interviewed one too many times), but…who knows.

There is no reason for me not to go, though. I mean, Baz has been tipping me handsomely and is singlehandedly supporting the shop. And for what? 

So, I decide to go early that Sunday morning, when I should be asleep but am playing COD. 

When I wake up later, I try to convince myself that I’m nervous because of how groggy I am. I stayed up a little too late, playing on my X-box, and now I can’t pick a coordinating outfit. A lot of what I wear makes it apparent that I never get out and probably only wear what I find at the bottom of my wardrobe. (Both true, but I don’t want to be that unimpressive, especially when Baz dresses like royalty.) (Literally. I wouldn’t be surprised if his entire wardrobe was a mix of Burberry and Versace.)

I eventually decide on some old work clothes I had Penny magick the patch off of without a trace of its existence. This was right after I got some new shirts from work and wanted to try dating again—not that anything ever went through. (I carry a lot of baggage, after all.) The shirts are nice, sturdy, and are also suitable for dates now that my name isn’t sewn over my heart. 

Not that meeting Baz at a boba shop is a date. It most certainly is not.

What are we even going to talk about, anyway?

Her MajesTEA is about a quarter of a mile walk from my flat, and so I decide to walk, thinking it will bide my time. But I still show up early: a quarter till twelve. No issue; I order my drink, take a seat, and look around the small boba shop.

The place is cosy with dim lighting and comfortable chairs spread all about the front of the shop. There are also booth seats running along the mirrored wall, and in the corner of the store caddy-corner from where I am in a booth, there is a Christmas tree. (It’s the Sunday before Christmas, I realise.) Along with the tree, there are a few other holiday decorations. Fairy lights are strung along the mirror and around the menu, and little holiday centrepieces sit atop each table. The attention to detail makes me smile. 

It also distracts me from realising that someone is standing right in front of me, and I don’t notice until he says my name. 

“Simon.”

Baz’s words are followed by him placing a small, white box in front of me.

I look at him incredulously, not knowing what is in the box. Now, I begin to worry again that maybe he is out to kill me to avenge his mother’s death. Maybe there’s a curse in there or something, though I would think you’d need a sturdier box for that....

“They’re sour cherry scones, clotted cream, and butter from Watford.”

For the oddest reason, my stomach ties in knots. And then, it releases with a strange, tickling sensation that fills me up from the tips of my toes to the top of my head. 

“Why did you—”

“Because I wanted to,” Baz tells me and sits down. “Just like why I wanted to buy all of your baked goods and meet you here. Because I want to.”

“Yes, but _why_?”

When I look at him, I can see the subtle pain burning in his eyes.

We’re both thinking the same thing.

After Baz proposed my staying at his manor, I never did…because Agatha changed her mind. I abandoned Baz to be the hero of my own story, to get the girl, and the glory, and the notoriety. But all I did was kill the man that caused the pain and hurt Baz. I didn’t keep my promise. He made sure to let me know it.

“We’re adults, Snow. It’s been ten years.” Baz looks from me. “I’m curious what became of the Chosen One.”

Baz has never been the one to be shy. He’s always looked me in the eye to test if I’d look away first, or if he would…but here he is. Blushing. Shifting in his seat. Both who he was and someone I don’t know any more sits across from me, nervous.

The feeling…it’s odd. And foreboding.

We’re strangers now, aren’t we?

We’re no one to each other.

That doesn’t sit right with me.

“What have you…what are you…where do you work?” I decide to start, and it dreadfully sounds like small talk, but I never learned where he did work.

“Watford,” Baz tells me, leaning against his knuckles. “I took over Elocution.” Baz rolls his eyes, and that rouses something in me. Reminds me of how he was when we were younger. The entitlement. The pretentiousness. “Kids can bring their electronics again, and it’s a pain to try and get them to pay attention.” 

Oh.

Well, understandable.

We go on like this for a while, back and forth about what we’ve been doing in the past ten years and I share more than I thought I ever would have with Baz Pitch, but now he doesn’t have a reason to hold anything over my head. I tell him about Agatha. About the divorce. The jobs. The bakery. He tells me about his college life. His decision to go back to Watford. His new place on the Coven. How the kids at Watford really like the food I make, and that the cook isn’t too happy that they’re reaching for my stuff. (This makes me laugh.)

We catch up. In the weirdest way, talking to him feels more normal than anything else that has happened to me in the past ten years. 

Fuck it, I feel safe. And I’ve never felt safe around him. But he was a foundation in my youth. If anyone helped keep my wits about me, it was him.

Our meeting begins to wind down after an hour or so. Silence begins to space out between what each of us has to say. In these interludes, I can’t help but feel guilty. He’s smiled at me like nothing ever happened. Like I never betrayed him. Like my father didn’t kill his mother. 

“I’m sorry,” I say. My hands cradle my drink, but then I crush it in my grip. “For abandoning you, and for my father, and for—”

Baz’s hands shut me up. He cups my hands between his, and his touch shoots electric bolts up my arms, and it kickstarts my heart into overdrive. His look is too soft. This is too soft. All of it. I’m almost overwhelmed. 

“Simon Snow, you are an insufferable twat, and for a long time, I hated you for it.” His hands won’t leave mine. I’m on fire and he’s using his hands to keep me ablaze. “But I think it’s time to move past this.” 

And to where?

“Let’s go on a walk.” Baz abruptly stands, thanks the employee at the counter, and walks towards the door. I do the same, and make sure to remember the scones before stepping into the frigid air. 

“Which way to your flat?” he asks me. He’s looking away from me, and I take a moment to assess him. He’s chic, head to toe. Nice, tan trench coat. A thick, black turtleneck. A burgundy scarf. Jeans. Baz…in jeans. I gulp and tear my eyes from his lower body just as he turns around. 

“That way.” I point the way he was looking, and we begin to walk.

Neither of us speaks. We amble along together, side by side amongst the white collecting on the pavement and in the banks around it. He’s searching for something, I think, eyes wandering about. On everything but me. And I watch him because I don’t know what else to do and the walk home is muscle memory. 

Each step closer, though, hurts. Or aches. Because I don’t want whatever this is to end. I don’t know when I’ll see him again, other than his bakery pickups. Where he doesn’t really talk to me. Where there’s little exchange, and I’m not learning about his life, or if he still plays the violin, or if he’s planning on travelling during the summer….

I’ve always been something to Baz. I don’t know how to function with not being anything.

This realisation causes me to come to a full stop, and Baz is at least ten feet away before he notices. When he does, he turns back to me, calling, “What are you doing?”

My feet take me to Baz. I don’t think, because I don’t know what will happen if I do, and before I can stop myself, I pull him down to my level by his scarf and kiss him.

Baz is surprised; he startles back slightly and looks at me with wide eyes.

Then, in turn, he surprises me by wrapping his arms around me and pulling me closer, kissing me back. 

The box of scones slips from my hands, and I wrap my arms around his neck. Like the space between us is still too much.

I pull away first, but I’m still entangled in his grasp and his smell of cedarwood and bergamot. I’m slightly dazed, but grinning like a fool and I don’t know why.

“Oh, no, Snow. Your scones,” Baz tuts and I gently nudge him. The tips of my ears are burning, and the warmth is spreading to my face.

“Fuck the scones. What just—”

“ _You_ kissed _me_ , may I remind you.” Baz smirks at me and unwraps his arms from my body. Then, he looks at the ground. I follow his gaze to find the box of scones has opened and spilt upon the snowy concrete. 

I’m sure he’s trying to distract me, so I nudge him again. “Yeah, but you kissed back!”

“I’ve wanted to do that for ages.” Baz continues to stroll, and his statement stuns me so much I stick in place. He has to come back and pull me along by the arm.

“I—I…what? You—”

“Simon Snow, I’ll explain everything later. But can we find your flat so I can snog you some more before you decide that you like punching me more than you like kissing me?”

That, we do. But I decide that night that I do like kissing him more than I ever liked fighting him.


End file.
